


I did not live until today

by Moransroar



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Seb's POV, Teenlock, all the mentions, mentions of domestic violence, mentions of minor animal cruelty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-20
Updated: 2014-11-20
Packaged: 2018-02-26 09:24:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2646770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moransroar/pseuds/Moransroar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Such an odd way of saying goodbye, don’t you think? Sitting in near silence for about half an hour, waiting for that damned train that will take me away to God knows what. My death, perhaps? If I’m lucky, that’s the least I’ll have to worry about.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Even though he has already made his decision, Sebastian still hesitates about actually leaving for India. But a promise is a promise, and Jim has come to see him to his train for a last goodbye.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I did not live until today

**Author's Note:**

> Hello loveys!
> 
> I should tell you in advance that this is kind of my twist on Sebastian and Jim meeting each other, and that I have borrowed but a few minor details from the actual books.  
> (You'll get a cookie if you spot the references)  
> So *Spanish moustache man voice* no Eton and Oxford for Seb!
> 
> A huge thank you to Sinnermoriarty from Tumblr who checked it for me and made sure I didn't derp along the way. Please notify me if you find any mistakes, thanks a bunch.
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy,
> 
> Bless.

_My heart is beating from me_  
 _I’m standing all alone_  
 _Please call me, only_  
 _If you are coming home_

_Waste another year flies by_  
 _Waste a night or two_  
 _You taught me how to live_

_(Green Day – Homecoming)_

 

\------------------------------

 

Such an odd way of saying goodbye, don’t you think? Sitting in near silence for about half an hour, waiting for that damned train that will take me away to God knows what. My death, perhaps? If I’m lucky, that’s the least I’ll have to worry about.

I don’t even know why I asked him to come earlier. Or why I asked him to come, period. But he’s my friend, and I wanted to see him one last time before I go. And yes, that sounds as pathetic as I feel.

Sitting here, on an iron bench that’s making my arse feel like a flat plank of wood, I consider my words carefully. And by carefully, I mean I think them over, then discard them as unnecessary. You might think that there’s so much to say, and perhaps there should be, but it’s just a little different with Jim. 

Not that I’m exactly the kind of type for sobbed goodbyes, but – without meaning to sound soppy – I could do with a proper farewell. Don’t get me wrong, I never expected him to climb in my lap and cry his eyes out, begging me not to go, but a word of acknowledgment would be nice.

 

In silence like this, my mind tends to rattle and race, thinking over everything I hadn’t had time for on a different day.

Remembering is good though, so I tell myself to simply stick to that. And slowly, I let my mind flood with images of different times, while Jim and I sit, staring ahead, waiting.

 

I think I’ve known Jim for about... five years, from which we actually were something closest to the definition of ‘friends’ for the past two. Before I really knew him, he was that oddly clever, dreamy lad at the back of the classroom, always scribbling away in a notebook or reading novels and (mostly astronomy) textbooks. It seemed like every single class bored him – which, as I would learn later on, they did.

Once, my curiosity got the better of me, and I actually went to the school library after class to search for a book which I had seen him reading. I didn’t think much behind it, I had always been curious about the boy where others turned their backs and went on with whatever they found more important. I had a way of dividing my attention between my different interests, and sure enough this mysterious figure had caught my attention. Perhaps it had been a way for me to have an excuse to initiate conversation, to figure him out. Because for some reason, despite what all my other classmates thought and said, I was drawn to his silence. Drawn to his ways of avoiding people, interested in the underlying reasons. The ‘who’s and the ‘why’s.

I never really saw him with anyone. I barely saw him at all outside school or during the breaks.

People discarded him as some kind of lone wolf. Which was fitting in a literary sense, since he was slender and stealthy, secretive with his dark hair and even darker - albeit sometimes somewhat scrutinizing – gaze.

 

It was a good book, even though I had never been much of a reader. Having to read the textbooks provided by the school because I needed to pass a test had always been enough of a means of torture for me.

But this was something else, and I could see the appeal these books had to the dark-haired bloke.

It was the book that came before the ever famous Da Vinci Code. This Robert Langdon bloke – a professor in symbology at Oxford University in the US – is practically dragged along to Rome to help with decrypting a message send to the Vatican. A threat, supposedly having been offered by the ancient Illuminati cult. Meanwhile, a highly dangerous yet small dose of antimatter is hidden somewhere in Rome, due to explode and wipe out the entire country of Vatican City by midnight. A race against the clock begins, because a security camera shows the timer that is counting down until midnight to find the explosives and dismantle them before they wipe out a part of Rome, and along with Vatican City, the cardinals while they are electing a new pope.

Anyway, as you can see, I was more enthusiastic about a book than I have ever been, and was eager to read the second. I waited a few weeks for the third, and I’m currently still waiting rather impatiently for the fourth.

One time, I had accidentally left Angels and Demons in my backpack after having read in the park, and thus had taken it to class, where I attracted a few odd looks and playful shoves and comments.

And an especially odd but amused look from the strange boy at the back of the class.

 

I found myself occupying myself with the reading of novel after novel, taking the librarian’s advice about what else I would probably like.

Within no time, I had read all novels present by Dan Brown and JRR Tolkien, having sped my way through the Harry Potter books, even founding the time to read some soppy pocket-sized housewife novels.

I decided to keep at mystery and thrill, those girly over-dramatic romances not far up my alley. (Although I kinda enjoyed reading Chocolat. Not that I would ever mention that to Jim or anybody else. It still has its place underneath my mattress)

I changed gradually – as people do – but nobody really seemed to mind the alternations I went through. Many would blame it to puberty. I became more down-to-earth, more rational. Still being myself, practising my sports and keeping in close contact with my mates, I merely started to _use my brains._

As I said, nobody minded, and everything went on normally, save for the fact that I started to care more for my education and achievements. My self-development.

It sounds corny, but it turned out I didn’t have the guts to actually talk to the person who had indirectly introduced me to great writers and extended knowledge. So I was damn pleased when he decided to join me in the park after school one afternoon.

\---

“They made that into a film, you know?”

I look up from my copy of The Da Vinci Code from where I sit on a wood and iron bench, right into his dark gaze. It’s the bench along still water, between the two large oaks, in the high grass, long abandoned from mowing. I know it’s on his way home. Not because I followed him once, but because I have seen him walk past before, on one of the rare occasions where I look up from the book I am reading.

“I know,” I reply, because I do, “but I like the books better.”

It’s true, and I can see in the way he shrugs his shoulders that he thinks so too. With reading a book, your imagination can run freely, making up different scenarios and characters. Besides, the stories are always at least slightly different from the films, and often better.

Much to my surprise, instead of turning and continuing his journey home, he steps forward, inspecting the slightly damp seat before sinking down on the bench. He doesn’t seem bothered by the little drops left behind from the drizzle half an hour ago.

Neither am I.

“I must say, I always thought you were more one for watching films rather than having to read.”

His voice is surprisingly pleasant to the ear, soft and lulling, a faint Irish lilt woven through his every word. I realise I have never really heard him speak before. Or I just never really listened.

I mark the page I was reading – almost at the end, still twenty or so pages to go – with a cinema ticker for X-men and slip it back into the rucksack at my feet. I look up again with a small grin.

“I’ve heard that before,” I roll my shoulders in a small non-suggestive shrug, “I like both, but I prefer reading. Or reading the books first.” And I nod towards my bag for emphasis, the book concealed by its fabric.

He nods, cocking his head, agreeing with me.

 

“I’m Jim.”

_I know._

“Sebastian.”

 

We sit in companionable silence for a few moments, both occupied by looking at something else. I’m watching the rippling of the water in the small pond before us, the water lilies floating peacefully along with the tiny waves as a duck splashes with water nearby.

I wonder what he’s looking at.

And as my eyes wander, I just then notice the book he is holding, and I tilt my head to be able to read the title.

“The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy.”

His voice startles me slightly in my thoughts, and when I look up, I meet his gaze once again, the sudden small smile on his lips softening his features.

He doesn’t look particularly healthy. He never has. Perhaps that was why people seemed to avoid him like the plague. Dark, sunken eyes piercing, yet if the light catches, they take on a lighter shade of warm chestnut. Purple rings around his eyes and pale skin accompanying them might indicate illness. But I think I know better. Especially now.

“Any good?” I ask curiously, eyes skimming over the dark blue cover.

“Why else would this be my second time of reading it.” He quips back simply, only vaguely questioning.

“Sounds reasonable.” It doesn’t, really. But if you come to know Jim better, you know that he never takes the time nor opportunity to read a book a second time. _“It is a waste of time you could spend on expanding your knowledge by other means.”_ He knows these things by heart, knows every story, every clue, and never fails to miss a single detail when giving a thorough summary.

 

And from then on, these run-ins become routine. A good one at that. When he spots me sitting on the bench, he scurries over and silently sits down next to me. Sometimes he reveals a book from his bag, and we read in silence. Sometimes we talk about things. Casual how’s-the-weather, did-you-see-the-news kind of talk.

It becomes easier the more we talk, the more often we get together. He opens up, talks more, and our conversations take different paths. Until then, he had always spoken, but never really said anything.

As we become more and more acquainted with one another, our friendship bloomed beyond out bench along the pond.

 

To say that he was startled when I first walked up to him at school would be just a slight understatement. We never really talked outside of our bench-sessions and I had taken it upon myself to bring change to our friendship.

I discovered his whereabouts during the breaks when I was searching for a friend of mine near the chemistry lab. He was almost always in the lab, either reading a book on chemicals, or experimenting with vile-smelling, fluorescent coloured or translucent fluids. I found that I enjoyed watching him go about with the mixtures, struggling with the tall lab coat that was just a little too big for him, his hands almost disappearing into the sleeves.

It was before history class began, that I tore away from my usual clique of mates to wander over to him, excusing myself politely and attracting off looks from the rest.

“Hey, Jimjam.” He had given up correcting me, knowing that I would keep calling him this, since my explanation as to why I did was solid. I knew he disliked ‘James’, that being his actual name, but the why, I only found out later. He looked tired. As always, really. Still, I worried.  
He looked up, anxiously glancing around me to my friend behind my back.

“They’ll kill me.”

“Not if I kill them first.”

I shrugged my shoulders, not really caring. That earned me a shy smile, the one where he averts his gaze and his skin seems to get back some of its colour that winter and lack of sleep and nutrition has taken from him.

And it was always worth it.

It was worth the scolding from my friends and the prolonged looks, which lasted for about a week before they eventually came to terms with it. They couldn’t just drop me like that because I decided to talk to someone unfamiliar. They knew that I would do whatever I wanted anyway.

Our bench-sessions kept going, alongside our conversations during breaks and during class. I noticed his habits and his antics, his mood swings, and I could eventually pinpoint exactly when he was brooding or overthinking things too much by a tiny shift in his expression.

 

And then there were the lunch breaks, where I noticed that he never bought anything to eat.

So I gradually began to share what I had, purposefully buying too much for myself to digest, so that his hungry stares slowly evaporated and eventually stayed away.

We laughed at how he devoured a turkey sandwich, claiming it had been ‘weeks since I last ate proper meat’.

Our friendship wasn’t based on food and food alone.

With but a little help from me, he got a job, earned a little for himself, and always babbled about paying me back.

 

But I was having none of it.

 

People began to think – aloud as well as inwardly – that we were a couple, but only because we were seen together a lot, always smiling or grinning or laughing about something.

“You’ve been hanging out with that scrawny kid an awful lot lately.”

I simply revealed my packet of cigarettes from the back pocket of my jeans, taking one out to place it between my lips. I flick my lighter, cupping a hand around the fragile flame to shield it from the soft breeze that whispers across the compound, and I take a drag.

“Are you queer or somethin’?”

I slowly let the smoke escape my lungs in a thick cloud before my face, watching as it cleared into the sky, purposefully ignoring my friend by my side, but he just keeps on going.

“Holy shit, you are, aren’t you? With that... that small kid. With the dark hair. I knew it. Everybody knows it, you know? They’re talkin’, Seb. You know what crazy bollocks people can cry out, only to get a little attention-“

“Shut up, Trav.”

We’re standing on the stone steps to the entrance of our school, and I’m waiting for Jim. He appears at the fence, just as the first bell rings, and a smile tugs at my lips, I don’t hear Travis next to me, having ignored my mild protest and ranting on about how being gay would ruin my reputation instead. I ignore him as I give Jim a small wave, dropping the half-gone cigarette and crushing it beneath my boot.

I turn to Travis just as Jim walks up the steps and joins us, raising an amused eyebrow, not the slightest upset.

“Your point being?”

I think I could neither confirm nor deny anything at that point already, but that didn’t really bother me.

 

Along with more insight in his likes and dislikes, the thin layer of façade that lay over his deeper thoughts being lifted inch by inch, eventually came an opening in the bullet-proof glass bubble Jim hid himself in. It made me feel exceptional, special even, that I seemed to be the one to accomplish that by simply being myself and opening up to a stranger.

Turned out we have quite the similar situation at home. Both of us have fathers with loose fists and an incredibly short temper. But where his father’s violence was stirred by the excessive amount of alcohol he consumed daily, my father’s came forth from a certain image of discipline he had.

Sometimes, Jim would come to school with bruises in the shapes of fingertips blooming across his throat or purple around his eye or a split lip. We would share a glance, sympathy on my side, a dull acceptance on his. And I would always receive a shrug, as if it didn’t really matter, and that it would be over soon enough. After that, we would slip into easy conversation again, the tension visibly easing from his shoulders.

 

Then, when the bruises faded and never came back, I was happy. Genuinely, unrequitedly happy.

 

Ignorance is bliss.

 

The idea of enlisting into the army has been playing around my mind for quite some time already. Jim disagreed with me. We argued, sometimes we yelled at one another, or we didn’t speak a word for days on end.

And once, just once, in the heat of an argument, I raised my hand, fingers spread, ready to strike. Only when he cringed away in horrified anticipation, did I realise what I was doing.

We agreed not to talk about my plans much anymore, and I apologised endlessly.

“I understand, Seb.”

Yet, I knew he didn’t.

 

I think it’s good to get out of London for a while, away from the crippling hold of my father, and doing so while serving a better purpose seems somehow fitting.

The idea lingered. Yet I stayed.

Maybe it was my too young age that kept me here at that time.

And a little bit of dark eyes and an insistent grip of pale, slender fingers curled around my wrist.

 

Our contrast was almost comical.

He was dark sky and gathered clouds before thunder. A fire kindled behind pale eyelids that never seemed to weaken. And I was but blond hair and blue eyes, the picture of innocence to some. Concealed by thick muscle and a charming smile.

He seemed to be a hurricane, you know? Destroying everything that came into his path.

And I set foot in this wonderful whirlwind.

 

Jim was more malicious than he appeared innocent, with a fiery passion for the things that piqued his interest most. And these things weren’t always morally correct, so to speak.

Not that I minded his pity crimes and minor animal cruelty at first, not at all. I realised rather quickly than I was thrown into his orbit, drawn to him because of basic gravitational pull. Or maybe it wasn’t as basic as I let on, and did I have an interesting mind of my own as well.

In which we were alike; we found each other.

 

How the dazed mewling of his cat Tibbles had seemed just a bit off at first – and here I should note that the feline had been pinned neatly to the mantelpiece by a jackknife, under the solemn excuse of ‘an experiment with morphine derivatives’ – I eventually got accustomed to Jim’s antics and odd taste of experiments.

Apparently, Jim was as eager to inject formaldehyde directly into somebody’s bloodstream to turn them into brain-dead vegetables, as I was connecting a clenched fist with the jaw of whoever dared speak foul of me of anything that I considered valuable.

Including Jim.

So where he had once been an easy target for peers’ temper and overflowing pheromones, I now stood between him and any possible threat.

When needed, I didn’t hesitate to throw a few punches. Which often resulted in me having a cup of tea with the principal, bloodied knuckles and all. But Jim seemed proud of that, for some reason.

Proud of me and my temper.

Maybe that was another impetus for me to enlist. Not that Jim was proud of me, but because I am protective and, let’s face it, I get a touch violent every now and then. But I have never before killed a man.

Unlike my dark-haired friend.

It had come to my attention that there was one boy in particular who tended to get on Jim’s nerves, and so on mine. A lad called Carl. I doubt I’ll ever forget that name. Carl Powers.

It had begun before I knew Jim like this, and I think it started out as mere snickering behind his back and long lingering looks. It’s annoying, I must say, to have someone constantly keeping an eye on you. And not with a friendly or protective motive behind any of it.

I remember how dirty looks turned into shoving and name-calling, which turned into following him home from school and adding to the bruises inflicted by his father.

I remember how the hurt previously caused by his own family, was being taken over by Powers and his gang, as if a satchel had been passed on. As if it was a bloody honour.

I remember that seething look of pure hate in Jim’s eyes that had once burnt for his father, was now directed to the older boy.

And I certainly remember Jim calling me in the dead of the night, all excited, telling me animatedly how he was going to do it.

 

A day later, Carl Powers was dead.

I could have prevented it from happening. I could have stopped my friend, but I cared more for Jim’s content (or happiness, if you’d rather call it that) than the life of that atrocious bastard.

 

Nobody knew.

Nobody knew and nobody found out.

And I couldn’t have given two fucks.

 

In for a penny, in for a pound I suppose.

 

“I honestly think this decision will break you.”

I blink up from my thoughts, my lips having been turned down into a tight frown, eyebrows slightly creased at the memory of Carl Powers. He got what he deserved, my opinion will never change about that.

I get thrown into the present as I meet his eyes, ever dark, even in the full daylight at the train station. I just nod absently, sliding my teeth thoughtfully over the ridge of my upper teeth. It’s like he can read my thoughts. Or, what has been woven through them since the very beginning. My opinion of him has never changed, and even though I know what he has done, and what he has been through, he is still the Jim that shyly came up to me on an afternoon in April, no jacket to keep the exposed skin of his arms from the cold that made my breath form clouds in the air, and asking me if he could, and these are his exact words; ‘steal some of your warmth’.

He may be physically vulnerable on the outside, and seemingly cold on the inside, but I know he secretly has a gooey centre.

He changed me, truly. I went from staying up and out into the ungodly hours doing God knows what, to staying up and out until I collapsed from exhaustion to hang out with Jim. To be with him, cherish those moments, as if I knew that I would one day leave and perhaps never come back.

I had already made my decision and I wanted to go through with it for whatever reason.

I couldn’t really bear thinking about leaving though and leaving Jim alone to fend for himself. I had fashioned myself into a sort of shield for him, willing to keep anything away that would burst his beautiful bubble.

Now I know where this is heading. I think I’ve known all along but never had the guts to really say it out loud. I’ve learnt that nothing good comes from speaking your mind in times like these. I’m going to say goodbye to Jim, roll my eyes at him one last time, and then step on the train and leave. I promised him I’d think about writing. I don’t think I could call, even if it was possible for me to do it from my camp in the middle of bloody nowhere.

“All these insufferable idiots, and you’re leaving me behind with them.”

I snort, rolling my eyes as a slow grin tugs at the corners of my lips.

“What happened to ‘You’re an idiot, Moran’?”

“I never said you were insufferable.” And that is probably the closest I will get to a compliment from him. But it settles heavily in my chest, making my upper body feel heavier than it should be, and I lean my elbows on my knees.

“You’ll be fine.” I mumble, eyes settling on the tracks in front of me again. Perhaps my words are meant to reassure myself that Jim will do perfectly fine without me. He’s got his brain, he’ll figure it out as no one would be able to. I think Jim can sense my slight distress, because he leans forwards to catch my gaze.

“Two years.” He clarifies.

“Two years.” I agree.

The train smoothly rolls into the station, coming to a gradual stop, and I let out a heavy sigh. The sign says I still have six minutes.

I rise from my seat and turn to him. He looks almost tense. Then again, my mind wishes to see so much right now.

It wishes to see him smile, yet through tears. It sees him lean in for a passionate hug. It sees his lips twist down into a tight frown.

The latter, I actually do see. His expression contorts, lips pressed flat against each other, his Adam’s apple working slowly.

“I’m sorry.” I begin, at a loss of what to say or do at that moment. My arms ache to wrap around him, but instead, they hang loosely by my sides. I can feel my heart beat hard against my chest, nervous fluttering in my chest with the idea that I really need to say and do the right thing now. I need to let him know that I value him, value his friendship and the attention he has given me throughout our years together. Words bubble up in my chest like thick bile in my throat, but I swallow them down as I simply stare at him. I can’t say it. I shouldn’t say it, however much I feel the urge to.

He is fumbling with the hem of his jumper as I lean down to wordlessly pick up my duffel bag and as I do so, he seems to remember something. He jumps to his feet, rummaging through his own small backpack to reveal a book-sized package from it, carefully wrapped in dark purple wrapping paper. I raise an amused eyebrow as he hands it to me.

“It’s not my birthday, Jimjam.”

It’s now his turn to roll his eyes despite the underlying tension that both of us seem to feel.

“I know, just open it.”

I tug at the tape that holds the thing together, and after tearing the dark paper a little, it reveals the cover of a book. I nod faintly, until I actually realise what the name of the author means. A new cover, a new book. Dan Brown. I can feel my eyes growing wide, and my lips part to reveal a range of teeth, the corners of my mouth quirking up in a broad grin. I hadn’t even known that the author had released a new book.

“It came out yesterday, actually.” Jim reasons with a small shrug, watching my reaction carefully. And at that moment he looks so small again, like the petite brunette that made me gaze up to constellations in the sky at night, pointing at the dark abyss while speaking excitedly about the different origins and back stories. It breaks my heart to have to leave him like this, the boy who I’d stay out in the cold for, who I’d wait for after school, so that he wouldn’t have to walk alone, and so we could talk about anything and everything.

I realise my smile must have wavered, since Jim is now staring back at me with a more concerned expression. I shake my head, and fix that grin right back on my features.

“Thank you. So much.” My voice is quieter than I had wanted it to be, and it only makes my eyes heavier and my breathing harder to keep up. “For everything, really.”

“Idem ditto.” Jim replies in unnecessary Latin, all amusement gone from his face, as mirrored by my own. My eyes flicker back to the sign.

 

Three minutes.

 

I’m strong. I can be distant when I want to, unmoved and emotionless, but that somehow seems to be making matters worse for me. Either that, or it’s just damn difficult not to look utterly lugubrious.

 

I don’t know how to leave.

 

Settling my eyes back on Jim’s, I see them shift. It’s quick, just a flicker of dark orbs travelling, but it’s a shift all the same.

And before my mind has been given the time to process that, file it and store it away, pale finger reach up to pinch the collar of my white shirt, curling around them until the knuckles grow sheet white, and the sudden force of his grip bends my back a little and sends him on his tip toes as he encloses my lips with his own.

It’s slow and deliberate, his slightly parted lips trapping my upper lip in a warmth that sends a shudder through me. My arms come to life to curl around his waist, my free hand splayed between his shoulder blades as the other still barely manages to hold onto the book.

The kiss contains a message, a feeling behind it that makes itself known by the almost fervent way that Jim presses himself against me. He feels warm and soft in my arms. With my eyes closed, I can concentrate on his every gasp of breath, every gentle swipe of his tongue that beckons me to deepen the kiss.

 

Two minutes.

 

Even with my eyes lidded, I know that people see. I know that people are watching, and that some of them will look away with revolted expressions, but there will also be some who will understand. The picture says it all. Clad in my military trousers, my duffel bag on my back, and the waiting train as our sullen background, we are the picture of loss.

I feel my heart sink at the sharp whistle that rings through high station, announcing the train’s departure.

The now frenzied slide of our lips slows gradually, and with a last gentle tug at his bottom lip, we break away to breathe. But with oxygen flowing into my lungs again, along comes an agonizing churning of my insides, a searing pain.

We both pant quietly for breath, eyes wide open as if we both want to memorise as much of each other as we are able to, our hands pressing and gripping as if we just can’t simply get a hold on one another.

Neither of us says another word, because my train is about to leave and if I don’t go now, I will have to face consequences which I really don’t want to have to undergo.

We promise nothing, just how we have always managed.

 

I don’t know how to leave.

 

I don’t want to lose those big, doe eyes on mine, don’t want to lose the hitched breath ghost hotly over my lips as we stay close, don’t want to face what I’m going to alone.

 

My grip loosens, and so does his, eventually. Reluctantly, I step away a little, making it possible for me to regard him properly, even though I already miss that radiating warmth against me. His hands slide over my chest before they flop to his sides, going back to fumbling nervously with the hem of his jumper. I lift a hand, slipping it to his cheek to caress my thumb over the contour of his cheekbone momentarily, his slender fingers coming to curl around that wrist.

With another sigh, I lean in to press a chaste kiss to his forehead, and then I have to turn to get on the train.

Finally, those spidery fingers don’t curl around my wrist anymore, like boundaries, chains keeping me here. It’s partially freeing, partially scary. Because that grip had been my hold of reality, and I don’t know how I will function without someone keeping me down to earth.

I seek out a compartment, throw my duffel bag on the opposite seat of where I settle myself by the window, tilting my head so that I can see him. His book is in my lap, but I order myself to keep my eyes fixed on Jim for as long as he is visible to me. He is standing alone now, and guilt plunges a dagger into my stomach.

The train shakes, grumbling to life as one last sharp whistle calls, and my eyes stay trained on him as it slowly begins to move away from what I still hold dear in London.

 

He waves.

He actually bloody waves.

It’s a small, hesitant raise of his hand, fingers slightly curled before he drops his arm back to his side again.

 

But it’s a wave all the same.

 

And in my realisation that this might be the very last time I see him, the last as well as the first time we kissed, I almost miss the small glistening drop that drags across his cheek.

 

I honestly think this decision will break him.


End file.
